Not Okay
by ProfessorElk
Summary: Prequel to my story "Going to be Okay": "You!" he roared, jumping to his feet, turning to face the man in the back of the room. "What did you say to her? What did you say?" "Tim!" Delilah cried. "Tim, no!"


**Not Okay**

By ProfessorElk

_Disclaimer_: The NCIS characters mentioned below are not mine and no profit has been made in the writing or posting of this story.

_Summary_: Prequel to my story "Going to be Okay": "You!" he roared, jumping to his feet, turning to face the man in the back of the room. "What did you say to her? What did you say?" "Tim!" Delilah cried. "Tim, no!"

_Spoilers_: Set around 11x13 "Double Back"

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This was too hard. The decision should not have been, how truly hard can it be to choose, but after everything that happened these past few days, it was. Sighing in frustration at his indecision, he fisted his hand, punching the button with more force than necessary. He could hear the whirl of mechanical parts moving to do his bidding, a _plop_ indicating that his command had been successfully completed. He stooped down, retrieving the package of Nutterbutters from the little tray at the bottom of the vending machine. Not the most balance and nutritious thing to have for dinner, but at this moment, he could not bring himself to care.

If he was being honest, he needed a break more than he needed food.

With trembling hands, he tried to tear open the packaging, getting more agitated as the foil wrapping refused to do his bidding. A small fissure appeared along the triangular ribs along the bottom of the packaging, quickly snaking into a bigger opening. Smiling briefly at his success, that look of elation turned to horror as the tear moved too quickly, sending the peanut butter treats tumbling to the floor. With a small cry of frustration, he looked up at the ceiling, trying to remain calm. One more injustice piled on top of the list of injustices recently plaguing him. Pulling out his wallet, he inserted the crispest dollar bill he had into the vending machine, repeating his previous actions. As he reached down to retrieve his new order, he simultaneously procured his knife from its place in his sock. Not taking any chances, he used his knife to smoothly cut open the foil packaging along the top, the peanut butter cookies still nestled safely in the pouch.

He debated picking up some coffee as well, maybe put some milk or cream in it so he could convince himself it was healthy. The coffee machine was conveniently located alongside the vending machine in the tiny family lounge of the intensive care unit. There were round plastic tables littered across the small room, two chairs assigned to each table. A small sofa, a loveseat really, was situated in front of a television mounted against the wall. It was showing a ZNN program from earlier in the day, grainy footage from someone's smartphone of the bombing of the gala playing on loop. The commentators were discussing the footage, again, and although the sound was muted, the closed captions were still scrolling across the bottom of the screen. He was enamored for several minutes before drawing himself away. He did not need to see that, the footage from someone standing far, far away from the explosion. He had been there, he had seen everything first hand.

He glanced down at his hands, watching them beginning to comply with his absentminded command of reaching into the foil packaging to procure a Nutterbutter, only to watch with morbid fascination as the digits connected to those hands failed to follow through. They were shaking, trembling. He fisted his hands in an attempt to stop the involuntary movement, only resulting in having trembling fists instead of trembling hands. Coffee, he needed coffee.

He absentminded pressed the buttons on the adjacent machine to fill his order, the cup falling into the holder and being filled with a steady stream of steaming hot liquid no longer as fascinating as it once was. It lost its charm at what, the fifth, eighth time he had come to get coffee? He rubbed his free hand tiredly down his face. He did not even know what number he was on anymore.

The machine chirped, alerting him that his coffee was ready, and his fingers involuntarily began reaching back to the buttons to order another cup before he stopped himself. He was alone tonight with Delilah. A second cup for her father was not necessary.

This was not how he wanted to meet her parents. It should have been over an awkward dinner at her parent's house, him saying something ridiculous due to nerves and he and Delilah having a funny story to tell someday. Instead, their shared meals had been little other than what the vending machines could offer and while he did not know what wine was appropriate to bring the Fielding's as a host and hostess gift, he did know how Mr. Fielding liked his coffee and how much sugar to put in Mrs. Fielding's tea.

He made his way over to the little counter in the corner of the lounge, where the pink packets of sugar were located, cream kept in powder form in a clear canister, stirring straws in a mug. There were only a few left, the counter sticky from the many coffee rings left by people too distracted to notice that their coffee cups were wet at the bottom. Marjorie had not been in yet to get it straightened out. He glanced at his watch, satisfied that he had guessed the correct time based on the nurse's schedule. Not even eight yet.

He gradually made his way back to Delilah's room, absentmindedly stirring his coffee with the miniature straw, no hurry in his step. Hopefully she would be sleeping by now. It was the coward's way of dealing with the issues, but it was all he could manage at the moment. It was too long of a day for more.

He came to her door, the sliding glass partially open. He could see her through the translucent pane, sitting up, alert, and talking to someone animatedly. At first he thought she was on the phone, Mrs. Fielding unable to help herself and calling despite both women needing their respective rests. Deciding that Delilah needed to be rescued from a rightfully worried mother, he entered her room, making his way to the small table alongside her bed to place his dinner upon. A strange sensation came over him before he got to his destination, a prickling feeling, the weight of someone's eyes upon him, resting on his back. Suddenly realizing that they were not alone, he turned around slowly, and saw the person he was least likely expecting to see.

"Dad?"

His father was before him, at the foot of Delilah's bed, dressed in his navy whites, his badges and medals glowing in the soft lamp light of the room.

"Wha…what are you…" he glanced between them, the Admiral looking stern and solemn faced as usual, Delilah red eyed and breathing jaggedly. Realizing what was happening, he went to her and took her hand, perching himself on the side edge of her bed, effectively blocking both of their views of the Admiral. "Hey, shh, it's okay. Shh. What's wrong, Delilah? What did he say to you?"

She hiccupped, big tears racing down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she managed to get out.

He squeezed her hand gently. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he assured.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, more tears rolling down her cheeks. "I'm so, so sorry. You can go. You don't have to stay."

His expression turned confused. "But I told your mom that I would. Do you not want me to stay anymore?"

Delilah shook her head, breaking gaze with him, staring resolutely at the glass door to her room instead. Her effort to look determined was detrimented by the large tears that continued to roll down her cheeks, he squeezed her hand again. "Do you want me to call your mom?"

She shook her head once more.

"Okay, then I'm staying right here. I'm not going anywhere," he replied with a gentle smile.

Her head whipped around quickly, Delilah no longer staring at the door, instead focusing her whole attention on him.

"Go," she repeated firmly. "I'm just holding you back."

She waved her free hand dismissively, but the emotion was thick in her voice. "You don't have to deal with all of this. Go. I'm releasing you."

He sputtered. "Delilah, where is this coming from? Who put you up to…"

He came to a stop, remembering that there was a third person in the room. "You!" he roared, jumping to his feet, turning to face the man in the back of the room. "What did you say to her? What did you say?"

"Tim!" Delilah cried. "Tim, no!"

He advanced toward his father, the man in question remaining stoic at the foot of his girlfriend's bed.

"Excuse me?" a new voice had them all turning towards the door. "Visiting hours are over."

He glanced at the watch on his wrist. It was only a little past eight. "Ms. Fielding is allowed family visits throughout the night," he replied through gritted teeth.

"Well, Ms. Fielding needs to rest," the nurse replied, standing her ground with false cheerfulness.

"Of course," the Admiral said. Giving a slight nod of his head to Delilah, he left, the glass door sliding partially closed behind him.

The nurse gave him a pointed look.

"I'm staying," he ground out.

"No, Tim. Go," Delilah called from behind him.

He spun on his heel, taking her hand in his once more and squeezing gently.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised.

"But I want…you…to." Her voice cracked, thick with insurmountable emotion. "Just because…I'm stuck…here…doesn't mean…you…have to be. I'm…setting…you…free. Go. Live your life…without me…holding…you…back."

He stood there thunderstruck. "Delilah," he began.

"You should go," the nurse said softly. She gently rested a warm hand on his shoulder, the other hand reaching for his elbow and giving it a tug. He went with her willingly, too shocked at Delilah's declaration to put up much protest. The nurse led him to the sliding glass door, releasing him for a moment to pick up his jacket and scarf that he placed on the visiting chair earlier. She handed them to him wordlessly, he absentmindedly taking the items in his arms. He was too focused on Delilah to notice much else. She had turned away from the door as much as she could, her shoulders shaking as she cried.

"Give her time," the nurse whispered. "She's gonna have good days and bad days. She's gonna say things that she'll regret. Right now she needs to rest. Come back in the morning and it'll be better.

The nurse gave him a gentle push out into the hallway and he moved without putting up a fight. The glass door slid shut behind him, the nurse staying with Delilah. His shoulders dropped and he ran a hand down his face. He was too tired to deal with this.

He shifted his coat and scarf so they balanced on one arm as he turned to leave the hospital and go home. Perhaps the nurse was right. Perhaps everything would be better in the morning after some sleep. He was almost to the end of the wing, right in front of the nurses' station, when a figure in white stepped out in front of him, blocking his path to the exit. He really did not want to deal with right now.

"Dad," he greeted, tone anything but friendly.

"Son."

They stood face to face in awkward silence.

"I'm going home," he announced, he brushed past his father, almost making it to the double doors which opened to the elevators, when the Admiral stopped him.

"She's right, you know." He stopped, although he refused to turn around. He did not want to give the Admiral the satisfaction.

"You've got to cut her loose, son." He flinched, but still did not turn.

"Her life is going in a different direction now. You can't follow her, Tim. You've worked too hard to throw that all away."

"What about Delilah, Dad, hasn't she worked too hard to get where she is too?"

"No one is denying that. You have to be pretty damn smart to be a DoD specialist, but let's get honest here. Can she really go back to being how she was? She's paralyzed Tim. Permanently. There's no coming back from that."

He did not know how to reply to that. The Admiral saw it as a sign of acquisition and gripped his shoulder, slowly turning him around.

"Don't mess this up Tim. I talked with Vance. I've seen how he looks at you, how he treats you compared to everyone else. You've got a future there, son. A long future. And a ticket to that leather seat upstairs. It's yours, you just can't lose sight of the prize. Stay focused. Work hard. Cut that girl loose. She's crippled for life. Don't let staying with her cripple you too."

He flinched as white-hot anger snaked from the pit of his stomach to his extremities and ultimately his head. He could see the white drone flying towards the gala, cell phone dropping to the ground with an audible crunch, Tony's voice becoming faint as his colleague desperately tried to get a response. He remembers the boom, the heat of the explosion. The screams echoed within the chambers of his soul, haunting, terrified. He remembers his own fear, his own terror, in making his way through the crowds, people pushing against him to get out of the building. He had found her buried beneath rubble, him picking what he could off of her as he desperately called her name. He had stopped when he caught sight of her back, her black dress becoming iridescent as it saturated with Delilah's blood. He did not want to touch her then, too afraid that the shards of glass would do irreparable damage if he tried to move her. Then Tony was there, the rest a blur of flames, panic, and the acrid aroma of blood and antiseptic.

All of that pain, the frustration at the injustice of it all, the sheer exhaustion that had consumed him twisted and morphed together within him, the white ht anger that he felt. His left hand was moving before he could stop it, fingers clenched together in a tight fist, only halted when it made contact with flesh.

Time seemed to slow as the Admiral was forced back by the blow, the momentum knocking him off of his feet. He landed in an undignified heap on the floor, lip and cheek already starting to bruise. "You…you…" the Admiral sputtered. He had never heard his father so flustered. "You hit me!"

His breathing was ragged as the pure fury began to recede. He glanced at his father's face. The exact opposite was happening with the Admiral. His fury was growing.

"What are your intentions, Tim? Marry the girl? Give up what's right in front of you to become someone's primary care giver? Damn it, you fool. You're willing to give up everything to become a nursemaid? Incredible! You've never put your priorities in the right place. Life's tough, Tim. Let's be honest here. You've never been one of the tough ones. You have to make a choice. It's not an easy choice, but you have to make it. No girl can come between you and your work. If you're not strong enough to do that, well, I don't know what to say to you."

He clenched his fist, the left appendage twitching to be used once more. He was seriously considering a kick instead to his downed father when hospital security approached.

"What's going on here?" The security guard's eyes swept the scene. His father still laid on the floor and he was sure there was a maniacal look in his own eyes.

"That young man," his father began, rubbing his injured face for good measure, "struck a decorated United States admiral of the navy without provoke."

"This true?"

He did not answer. He was still seething. The guard took his silence as admittance. The man approached and laid a firm hand on his shoulder.

"What do you want me to do about this?"

The Admiral thought about it for a moment from his position on the floor. "Have Metro take him in. Let him sulk in a cell for a while."

He met his father's eyes and glared at him. The Admiral remained unphased. He continued his visual assault until Metro came and even then he did not look fully away. His hands were cuffed behind his back. Two policemen, one at each arm, led him away toward the elevators. He caught one last look at his father, gingerly picking himself off the floor, still rubbing his sore jaw, before the double doors closed behind him. The lift _dinged_, signaling the arrival of the car and once the door slid open, he was pushed none too carefully into the elevator.

The trip to the station was a blur of too many bodies, too many hands, jostling him this way and that. Hands kept a firm grip in his shoulders, his arms, his cuffed hands. The words spoken were garbled, the only constant were the hands. When they abruptly left him, he blinked, coming aware for what seemed like the first time in a long time.

He was sitting in a small, darkened cell, the lights dimmed to encourage the incarcerated to sleep. The metal beneath him was cold, no pillow or blanket provided to warm him. There was a toilet in the corner, no sink, the convenience looking like more trouble than it was worth to use. Were those cockroaches scurrying to the piping behind the bowl?

He shivered. He tried to draw his coat closer around his body only to realize that it no longer was there. His scarf, cell phone, gun, badge, and knife were missing also. He shivered again. He did not even remember when they were confiscated.

He huddled in on himself, elbows resting against his knees, hands cupping his face. He shook from the cold and repressed emotion. He survived a near death experience, his girlfriend had been paralyzed for life, she no longer wanted to see him, his father thought he was wasting his life, again, and he had been arrested. He choked out an incredulous laugh. What had his life become?

He sat there, huddled and alone, for an indiscernible amount of time, intermittently making small gasps and loud swallows as he tried to stop himself from crying.

"You okay, mate?" one of the other inmates asked.

He did not even try to answer. No, he definitely was not okay.

**End**

_There's a happier ending in this story's sequel, _Going to Be Okay_._

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_**a/n: Thank you so very much for reading! I felt my story **_**Going to Be Okay**_** was slightly unfinished and thus **_**Not Okay**_** was born! I hope you enjoyed it.**_

_**Until next time :)**_


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